The Lady of Jekyll Park
by Ceres Wunderkind
Summary: A tale of mystery and concealment from Lyra's world.
1. In Which A Mystery Is Introduced

_**Part One; In Which A Mystery Is Introduced  
**_

Original characters and situations are copyright © Ceres Wunderkind 2006

I heard the odd little tale that I'm going to pass on to you today at one of Lady Clifton's _salons_. No, not the present Lady Clifton; her mother Lady Mabel, the sometime Dowager. You might not remember her.

It was one of those literary society affairs that were so popular a few years ago. They're rather out of fashion now, but, putting it briefly, if you were in Town for the Season and you were mixed up in some way with the world of books, and you could be relied upon not to insult the guest of honour or attempt to seduce one of the footmen, you were sure to be invited to one of Lady Mabel's bunfights. Everybody went to one sooner or later, it was said.

They were held in her family's London house in Upper Grosvenor Street, just off the old May Fair which used to run next to Jekyll Park. Their pattern rarely changed, which was a good thing, I think. We needed some stability in those unstable times, did we not? Anyway, there was always a good spread in the ballroom with a string quartet or small Ladies' Orchestra tucked away in a corner playing something unobtrusive. Lady Mabel would circulate busily among her guests, doing her social duty, and so would I.

The crowd on this occasion comprised the usual admixture; rich publishers, poor writers (often in both senses of the word) their eager girl- or boy-friends in tow and wearing the most horrible clothes – all grubby old tweed and vilely-coloured coal-silk – one or two plump politicians and, to make up the numbers, a few members of that general Society whose job it is to support the party-giver; keeping the wheels oiled and the festivities humming along nicely, in which category I suppose I must include myself. I was pretty good at it and never lacked for invitations, either to parties in London or to country house weekends. If at any time you have an hour or two free, my dear, I could show you my old everyday books. I'm quite certain you'd find them absolutely fascinating. Their greatest value to me – apart from the photograms and drawings they contain – lies in the guest lists and other personal information I record after every function I attend. I have settled more than one heated argument by reference to my old books and diaries. But wait; I'm being forgetful – I've showed them to you dozens of times, haven't I?

So; my records inform me that my daemon Sandy and I were at Lady Mabel's on one particular evening in November 20—. I shall be no more specific than that. It was about ten o'clock, more or less, and I was giving myself a brief respite from the hard work of social lubrication with a spot of the personal variety. In other words I had acquired a glass of Lady Mabel's champagne and was standing by to the buffet table loading my plate with _canapés_. You may have noticed that I'm a dab hand with buffets, especially the delicate art of stacking as many comestibles as possible onto the dinky little plates you tend to find at these functions. If I may pass on an avuncular hint, it's a good idea to begin with lettuce leaves as they have the useful property of overlapping the sides of the plate and providing a support for whatever gourmet superstructure you may feel like erecting on top. I was turning from the salads and heading in the general direction of the cold meats when I saw a lady with a plate which, I thought at first, she must have smuggled out of the kitchen, it was so large. I sidled up to her, absolutely oozing curiosity.

'I say,' said I, 'where did you get that splendid great cartwheel?'

'Do you mean this?' she replied, holding up her plate.

'Yes.'

'From the end of the table, of course,' she said, pointing to the same stack of plates from which I had taken mine. I looked again. And then I realised what she had done. Rather than simply allowing her radicchio leaves to extend from the side of the plate, she had first built a foundation of celery sticks; cantilevered out and held in place by a pile of potato salad in the middle. She had then overlaid an interlocking round of lettuce on top of it, like the roof over the vaulting arches in a great Oratory. On top of that she was piling a heap of caviar, chicken legs, rollmop herrings, Doytch sausage and all the other good things that Lady Mabel's expert kitchen was accustomed to providing. Her daemon assisted her from time to time with a dainty paw.

'I'm most impressed,' I said, and I meant it.

You may be forming a mental picture of this lady. She must have been, you may think, one of those ill-dressed, starving-in-a-garret, writers I mentioned earlier or, perhaps, the overstuffed wife of some captain of industry. But no, she appeared to be neither of those things. For a start, despite her evidently healthy appetite, she was tall and gracefully slim, positively _svelte_, in fact. And to disprove any idea you may have that she was indeed starving and this was likely her only square meal of the week, she was dressed in a long, beautifully cut evening gown in fuchsia satin. I spotted her wedding ring straight away, of course. It is my job to notice such things.

I was wondering what she was doing at Lady Mabel's scribblers' shindig. She seemed not to fit into any of the general categories that I have described. However, it would have been a dreadful _faux pas_ to have shown any sign of my inner uncertainty, so I extended my right hand to her.

'Julian Hastings,' I said. 'I'm very pleased to meet you.'

'Honor Breight,' she replied and we shook hands. Our daemons did whatever it is that daemons do when their humans are introduced.

'Shall we…?' I asked, and indicated an empty table. She nodded and allowed me to shepherd her to a chair. We narrowly beat that old bore Theodore Huwes to the spot. I dashed back to the buffet table, fetched some knives and forks and, acting on a hunch, brought us both large glasses of lemonade rather than wine.

I sat down and Miss Breight picked up her lemonade with evident relief. She took a long draught. 'What a clever man you are, Mister Hastings' she said, putting down her half-empty glass. 'How did you know I would prefer a long drink?'

I pointed to her plate. 'You have a lot to get through there, Miss Breight, and the room is quite warm. Now then, tuck in!'

She ate with a refined ferocity which quite took me aback. Without breaching the rules of good manners at any point she… demolished is the only word, the contents of her plate. I did my best to keep up with her. And while we ate, we talked.

I have said that I had spotted her wedding ring, and yet I still addressed her as "Miss". Why was that? The answer is simple. Although I had never met the lady before, I had most certainly heard of her as, of course, have you. For professional purposes she had remained unmarried and no older than twenty-two, even though in real life, and despite the artful use of cosmetic preparations, I doubted she would see forty again.

'I'm sure you're tired of being told this,' I said, taking a bite of some excellent white pudding, 'but I'm a great admirer of your work.'

'Oh, I never tire of being flattered, Mister Hastings.'

'Stuff and nonsense! I never flatter.'

Miss Breight narrowed her eyes. Her daemon stared at my Sandy, whose wings flapped in slight agitation. 'What, never?'

'Hardly ever.' I smiled my best get-out-of-gaol smile. 'My nieces simply adore your stories.'

'I'm so glad. And you? Do you simply adore them too? Have you read them?'

The lady's directness was a trifle disconcerting. Really, writers are more egotistical even than actors, and that is saying a bundle, is it not?

'Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. Uncle Julian is often asked to read bedtime stories to his sister's little girls. And, I have to say, your tales are their favourites.'

'That is pleasant to hear, Mister Hastings. But I'd like to know what _you_ think of the stories, not whether darling Gwendoline and Cicely find them appropriately soporific.'

'Their names are Fay and Louise and they are always completely enthralled by the Comrades' exploits. But, as for myself…' I paused for thought. 'I would say that, while at no time containing material unsuitable for young members of the fairer sex your stories contain something more… a resonance, perhaps, of adult concerns. Or to put it another way, I never grow tired of reading them because, while the adventures of the Three are frequently dashing and exciting, the emotions involved go beyond mere thrills into something deeper… and more rewarding than one expects… something spiritual…' My voice trailed away. It was unusual for me, though admittedly I'm not a professional critic, to face up to a piece of work which I was able to analyse at first glance. Most writing, I find, is either ridiculously trite or gratuitously unintelligible. The _Comrades Three_ books, it seemed, were neither facile, despite their wide readership, nor wilfully obscure, notwithstanding the respectful reviews they received in literary journals. To find myself unable to put a finger on the secret of the success of Miss Breight's books was bad enough, but it was doubly embarrassing to be lost for words in front of their author. I must have blushed.

'Mister Hastings,' said Miss Breight, 'You're not just a clever man, are you? I think that, despite appearances, you're rather a nice one too.' She smiled broadly and rested her hand on mine for a moment. I blushed again, for I had had a kind of small epiphany. I suddenly felt, as we all feel sometimes, that I was in the presence of someone who was my superior in every way; in beauty, wit and charm. That she had the grace not to take advantage of that superiority only contributed to it, to my chagrin.

_Julian_, said Sandy in my inner ear, _don't worry. She's used to situations like this. Just treat her normally. It's what she wants._

So: 'Will you be going into the country for the Twelfth?' I asked, and she said that she would if the pressure of work permitted and told me about her friend who lived near Oban and owned his own sea-loch and we spoke of fishing and deer-stalking and ghillies and their faults, and whether the Purdey or the Sheringham was the better gun. And just as I was thinking that it was about time I got back to work in the greater throng and was wondering to whom I could hand Miss Breight we were interrupted by a large, loud, middle-aged lady with bright red hair.

'Julian, darling! Do you think you could possibly see to that young man by the piano? I think he wants to play for us and I'm most dreadfully afraid it's going to be some frightful thing he's written himself, all F sharp minors, thirteenths and funny time signatures. Please prevent him, for the sake of all our sanities.'

Naturally, I had stood up immediately the lady had spoken. 'But of course, my dear Mabel. What would you prefer him to do?'

'Why, make him go away, you silly man! Or at least not play his beastly sonata or whatever it is in my ballroom.'

'Certainly, old chum of mine.'

Lady Mabel sat in the chair I had just vacated. 'Go on, then. Shoo!'

I shooed as I was told, but as I made my way through the crowd I overheard Mabel say to Miss Breight, 'What ho, Sunny, old thing! And what have you been up to lately?'

- 0 -

As I have already suggested, I had known from the first that "Honor Breight" was a _nom-de-plume_. One can't hang around the fringes of the publishing world for long without becoming aware that writers are – for the most part – strange solitary creatures who prefer to hide behind pseudonyms, either because they are too shy or, in some cases, downright ashamed of the work they produce. But why would this lady, who was clearly not at all shy and whose books were read and admired all around the globe, need to disguise her identity? It was a mystery that I very much wanted to solve. But not now, perhaps. I had work to do for Lady Mabel.

I persuaded the young pianist that his masterpiece deserved no less an auditorium than the Queen's Hall for its first performance and promised to see if I couldn't put in a word for him with the impresario Sir Henry Butterworth, who had been a close friend of mine since we had both been at Ercall College together. He believed me, and returned to his friends waving his manuscript score in great excitement. I sighed and promised myself never to run into him again.

Round the – I suppose the _Chronicle_ newspaper would call it "glittering" – ballroom I circulated for the next hour or two, bringing people together, encouraging new authors by reminding them that that even the most famous writers still receive rejection slips, recommending agents, breaking up scholarly disagreements before they could become too serious, making sure that the waiting staff did their jobs properly, helping ladies with their dropped gloves and gentlemen with their slipping cravats until, as midnight approached, the party began to wind down. I always made a point of not leaving Lady Mabel's _soirées_ until it was certain that my assistance was no longer needed, except for those rare occasions when I hit it off especially well with a guest and we retired early to continue the revels on more intimate terms in my set of rooms in Albany.

That had not happened this time and so, with the number of guests reduced to single figures, I set out to hunt down Lady Mabel to make my _au revoirs_. However she was neither in the ballroom nor the entrance hall and I had to consult Bedford, the head footman, who informed me that Lady Mabel had left instructions that I was to be shown to the library. This was not altogether unusual as Mabel and I were, as you must have gathered by now, old friends and she would quite often ask me to chat with her privately after an evening, swapping gossip and any little nuggets of useful information I might have picked up in the course of my rounds. As I was at my hostess's complete disposal I permitted the man to lead me through the hall, past the drawing room and dining room and into a large and comfortably appointed library at the rear of the house. He knocked on the open door, announced me and closed it silently behind himself.

Despite its considerable size the library was warm and welcoming, with a low fire burning in the grate and close-shaded lights fixed to sconces on the panelled walls. Many of the books, I noticed, were new – no doubt presents from Mabel's guests – and I found myself wondering how many of them would, one day, be rare and priceless first editions. Many authors had gone on to win fame and great fortune as a direct or indirect result of the acquaintances they had struck up at Lady Mabel's.

I had little time to ponder the success of others, for Mabel waved me in and pointed to an armchair opposite the fire from the sofa where she and Honor Breight were sitting together. 'Sit down, old chap,' she said and I did, noting that a fat balloon of brandtwijn was waiting for me on a reading table next to the chair.

'Ladies,' I said, 'I am greatly honoured. Your health.' And I took a generous nip of the brandy. As a rule I drink very little alcohol at parties, although nobody has ever known me to decline the offer of a glass. It helps me circulate more effectively. 'But,' I said, replacing the brandy on the table, 'this little gathering, while most charming, is also somewhat unexpected. May I take it that you and Miss Breight already know one another?'

'Oh yes,' said Honor Breight. 'We have been friends for many years.'

'More years than you can count,' added Lady Mabel with a chuckle. Her Hal chirruped and his eyes sparkled in the firelight. 'Let's stop fooling about, shall we? This is my old chum Lady Pangborne, Sonya Moon as was.'

I rose to my feet, crossed the hearth and kissed the lady's extended hand. 'Delighted, Lady Pangborne.'

'Call me Sonya, please,' she replied, somehow managing to drop me a courtesy while remaining seated.

'Very well, Lady Sonya. But see; I detect a mystery. I've have been attending dear Mabel's little get-togethers for a number of years now and yet I've never before had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. How can this be?' I sat back and took another sip of brandy.

'Oh, I'm rather busy. This and that, don't you know?'

'What Sunny isn't telling you is that she's doing lots of terrible important work for the Foreign Office and the League of Nations.'

'Which is all most terribly hush-hush and you'd have to shoot me if you told me about it?'

'Something like that,' said Lady Sonya and smiled darkly.

'And yet you can still find the time to write your children's books?'

The smile turned to a frown. 'I do hope you don't think of them as being only for children?'

'Oh dash it, no.' This was the second time she had caught me on the hop. 'Of course not. I told you that already.'

She inclined her head.' I find the writing of stories – fiction – to be a very welcome respite from the difficulties of my work. The problems of story construction and the creation of believable characters and situations can be very trying, certainly, but they pale in comparison with the intractabilities of the real world.'

'I can see how that could be the case. My own life is somewhat detached from everyday concerns, I'm sorry to say.'

'You're an old fraud, you mean.' Mabel was characteristically robust. 'But come on, Julian. Sunny's told me, and so have you, that you admire her work and you read her books to your nieces. But which of her stories do they like the most? Or are little Fay and Louise as undiscriminating as most children of their age?'

I thought for a moment. 'The last one I read to them was one of the early ones – _Three and the Precipice of Doom_, I think it was. They absolutely loved it.'

Lady Sonya and Lady Mabel burst into howls of laughter. I was nonplussed yet again. 'I'm sorry. What have I said now?'

'You silly goose!' said Mabel between guffaws. 'Sunny didn't write that one!'

'No?'

'No,' said Lady Sonya, regaining control of herself. 'That was a different "Honor Breight". It's ages old! It was one of the ones I read when I was a little girl. I loved it, too. Now shut up, Mabel. It's not fair to make fun of Mister Hastings like this.'

'Oh Jools doesn't mind. He's used to it – he's like a horse. Needs a touch of the riding crop from time to time, else he goes astray, eh what?'

_Naughty, naughty_, said Sandy.

It was too late, and it would have been rather feeble, for me to point out that children's books only rarely carry publishing dates. So instead I took a slow, appreciative draught of brandy. 'All right,' I said at last. 'So you've only written the more recent _Comrades Three_ stories. Well, of those I think the one I liked the most was _Three and the Skies of Hindustan_. It was so… curious and exotic. But especially, it was the witches. Hardly anybody writes books about witches, and of those very few are done well. I'm not talking about _Les Livres Jaunes_, of course. But this was tremendously realistic and convincing. It was as if a witch was narrating the story herself. Tell me, have you actually met a witch? I've never met anyone who has. I've always been fascinated by them.'

'You have?'

'Yes, there's something about them – the romance of their flight, supported by nothing but a sliver of cloud-pine, set against the starlit skies of the North. Their supernal beauty, their long lives, their strange and extraordinary daemons… I was struck by them, that's all. Always have been, since I was a boy and Nurse told me fairy-stories to send me to sleep. They never did, of course. I used to lie awake and dream of tatterdemalion black silk, and ice-spears flashing in the dark, and clan-feuds fought to the death over the desolate Tartar wastes.' I leaned back and sighed.

'I take it that you have never encountered a witch?' asked Lady Sonya.

'No, more's the pity.'

'So you'd like to meet one?'

'Of course, my lady. More than anything.'

'But what would you do if you did?' said Lady Mabel.

'And how would you know she really was a witch?' said Lady Sonya.

'Oh, I don't think I could possibly mistake a real witch if I saw one.'

Lady Mabel and Lady Sonya exchanged long glances. Then: 'Do you promise that you'll keep what I'm about to tell you under your hat?' said Lady Sonya.

'Because if you don't I'll have to shoot you,' said Mabel. She looked as if she meant it.

'Of course.'

'Well then, I'll let Sunny do the talking. She's the bestselling author around here.'

Lady Sonya Pangborne leaned forward in her chair and as she spoke the room shrank around us, as if we, and only we, were the sole inhabitants of the Universe. Her face was golden in the firelight, her long dark hair a nebula of ebony enfolding it. She held her daemon close in her arms and let his head rest upon her bosom, comfortable and familiar as only a person and her heart's companion can be. Sandy nestled in the crook of my elbow. And we listened.

**_To be continued…_**


	2. In Which The Mystery Is Expounded

**_Part 2; In Which The Mystery is Expounded_**

'The first time I came across a witch,' said Lady Sonya, 'was during the Holy War. It was on the day of the Catastrophe and I don't especially want to talk about it. Mabel and I both served during the War, you know, in the Ambulance Brigade.'

'I never knew that. Did you really? How astonishing!'

'But nevertheless true, Mister Hastings. That witch – her name was Pluvia Vega – saved my life. But…' Lady Pangborne looked down. She didn't want me to see her eyes. 'But, to carry on…'

'Yes, shut up Jools. Don't interrupt.' I bowed in my seat, rather less gracefully than Lady Sonya had curtsied.

'It happened not long after the War had ended. It was a strange and dangerous time all over Europe, but very little of that strangeness and danger affected me directly, safe at home as I was. Daddy spent nearly all his time in London and only rarely came home at weekends, but there was nothing new about that.'

I remembered that Sonya's father, Admiral Sir Ronald Moon, had become Prime Minister of Brytain following the post-war General Election.

'He had always been away, either at sea or at the Great Parliament. When he did come back home I only got to see him at mealtimes, and not always then. But he was kind and loving and although I resented his absence, I never resented _him_, if you see what I mean.

'Most of the time – I was still under twenty-one – I was in the care of my Aunt Sybil. We were constantly at odds with each other, I'm sorry to say. She wanted to look after me the way Mummy would have done if she hadn't died but the poor thing was hopelessly ill equipped to do so. For one thing, she was unmarried, and for another she had been terribly poor when she was my age. Even though she was a granddaughter of the seventeenth Lord Oakdale, she had no personal fortune at all, and neither had Mummy. So half the time she was saving money in silly, petty ways, like insisting on the servants making their uniforms last until they literally fell apart or re-using writing paper, and the other half she was going on shopping sprees and spending enormous amounts at places likes Dollingford and Peal, or Liberty's. We Moons always had oodles of money but at least we knew how to use it sensibly.

'Anyway, on the day I'm going to tell you about my aunt was in one of her spending moods. I was due to go up to Cantabriensis that autumn and Aunt Sybil was determined that I should have the best tables and chairs that money could buy to furnish my rooms, and the most hard-wearing and sturdy clothes obtainable to withstand the icy Fenland gales. "Dear Sonya," she said, "you will have Standards to maintain. You are a Gresham; never forget that. You must justify the respect that is due to your fine old ancestry. No penny-pinching or shoddiness, if you please!" To tell the truth I always felt that I was much more of a Moon than a Gresham, but I wasn't about to stop Aunt Sybil letting me spend some money on myself. And you can stop giggling, too!'

Mabel covered her mouth with her hand. I could tell she was laughing at some private joke.

'So Aunt Sybil and I got on the Paddington train one fine morning in early September and went up to Town. She grabbed a taxi at the station and put the driver on a retainer to carry us about all day. I had just as soon have taken the Chthonic but I knew that that would be perfectly impossible. My aunt would never have allowed herself to be seen using such a proletarian mode of transport. Instead, we had to spend hours stuck in traffic jams.

'Even though we had taken the early train it was mid-afternoon before we reached Harvey's department store. I knew they had the most beautiful bodices you ever saw in the underwear department and I couldn't wait to try them on. Have you ever been there, Mister Hastings?'

'No, Lady Sonya. I find the arcades of Piccadilly and the gentlemen's shops of Jermyn Street are sufficient to meet my simple needs.'

'So like a man,' said Mabel. I bowed once more.

'We were both ready to flop, so I suggested we headed straight to the Bamboo Room for a refreshing cup of tea. Aunt Sybil agreed – I'd noticed she was getting better at agreeing with me – and we found a table by the window, overlooking the roof garden. They were very popular back then, you know. I ordered tea and cakes while my aunt visited the powder room and tucked in immediately they arrived. I knew I'd be told off, and it was pretty poor manners not to wait for her, but I was absolutely starving. It had been nearly two hours since lunch. Then a very strange thing happened. Just as I was scoffing my third Marlborough bun a movement caught the corner of my eye. It was only a brief flash, but the odd thing about it was that it wasn't inside the restaurant, where people were coming and going all the time, but outside. In fact it was in the roof garden. My head turned to see, but whatever it was had vanished. _Nothing there_, my Alfie said. He was probably right, I thought, or else it had been a bird landing in one of the bushes. But then it happened again, and this time I didn't miss it. There was someone standing on the edge of the roof, with her toes hanging over the coping. I stood up; throwing crumbs everywhere and knocking my teacup over.

'I immediately realised that the person was not one of the waiting staff, for she wasn't wearing a uniform. Nor could she have been a gardener, for more or less the same reason. I could only see her back, not her face, but I recognised her straight away. Nobody else I knew had hair quite that colour.

'"Mabel!" I shouted, like an idiot. "Mabel!" But of course the person, whoever she was, couldn't hear me through the plate-glass. I banged on the window. "Mabel!" But she was gone. My heart froze. Had I startled her? Had she slipped and fallen from the roof? What had I done?

'I dashed out of the restaurant, leaving everything behind except my handbag and nearly felling Aunt Sybil who was returning from the powder room. "Sorry!" I cried after her. I didn't wait to hear her response.

'I'd better say at this point that I hadn't seen Mabel for well over a year, since we served in Frankland. We'd had a… falling out…'

'You damn near killed me with that sword of yours,' said Lady Mabel.

'And you got me into serious trouble with the authorities,' said Lady Sonya.

'You deserved it.'

'I was only doing what I thought was right.'

'Ladies!' I interjected. 'Please!'

'Sorry.' Lady Sonya shook her head. 'It doesn't matter now. But what mattered to me then was that I'd seen someone who looked a lot like one of my old comrades and that she'd disappeared and, for all I knew, just got herself killed. And that it might be my fault.

'I was frantic. I shoved my way down the stairs and out of a side door into Knight's Bridge, which is where Harvey's store is situated. As you probably know, that's half a mile or so to the south of Jekyll Park. I never saw a knight or a bridge there, though.

'Of course, the street was seething with autobuses, taxis and delivery vans; and the pavements were chocker too. I had about as much chance of finding Mabel – if it _were_ Mabel – as a straw in a bale. One thing was certain, though, and that was that nobody had actually thrown themselves off the roof. Everything was quite normal and there was none of the commotion you might have expected if a hundred and thirty pounds of solidly built girl had suddenly landed on top of some perfectly innocent passers-by. (Lady Mabel grinned at this.) Alfie suggested it would be a good idea to return to the Bamboo Room and apologise to Aunt Sybil and that I could always send a 'gram to Mabel's parents when I got back home.

'He's always right – or so he says – so I turned to go back into Harvey's. I re-entered the shop by the main revolving door, noticing that people were looking at me strangely and giving me a fair amount of elbow-room, and I was about to make my way back up to the top floor when, just as before, a quick movement caught my eye. I turned and – yes – there was that mop of curly red hair again, leaving the shop by the other side of the revolving door.

'I let the door carry me round and back into Knight's Bridge. Mabel would only be few yards away, I thought. But no. She had already crossed the road and was going north, towards the park.

'I grabbed my skirts and dashed after her, upsetting Alfie, several cabbies and a lorry driver, not to mention the shoppers who were crowding the pavement. "Mabel!" I called out as I ran, and once I thought I saw her head turn in recognition. "Stop! It's me! Sunny!" I was positive now that she really was Mabel but I hadn't remembered her being quite so athletic as this girl seemed to be. I could run pretty fast when I wanted to, but my quarry, without even breaking her stride, was keeping a constant gap between us of about fifty yards. Her bird-daemon kept station above her head while Alfie sank his claws deep into the shoulder of my coat. He knew that if he fell off I'd have to stop and that would be the end of the chase.

'Despite my pleas she didn't stop, and soon we came to the junction with Jekyll Park Road. There she turned left and so did I. That was where I finally began to catch up with her. The pavement was comparatively clear and I was really able to get into my stride. We pelted westwards along the road and I was almost in a position to put on a final burst of speed and grab hold of her when suddenly she turned sharp left, vaulted over a set of railings and ran down a flight of steps into a basement area. I stopped and leaned against the wall. A door opened and closed below me. Someone had let the girl into the house. I had lost her.

'I was gasping for air, so I stood for a minute or two until my breathing returned to normal. Then I stepped back on the pavement and looked up at the building. It was one of those large stucco-fronted houses of which there are so many next to the park. The front door was set at the top of three or four tiled steps and the house rose up another two stories from the ground floor, with an attic perched on top. The basement, where the kitchens and laundries were located, was underneath. Heavens! It wasn't so very different from Mabel's house, or our own place in Leinster Square for all that. Just a typical big London house, sitting in the middle of a row of others just like it and facing the trees which run along the south side of the park.

'"Now then," said Alfie, climbing down into the crook of my elbow, "let's have a think. You're quite sure that was Mabel?"

'"Silly daemon! Of course it was!"

'"It looked like her, yes. But why did she run away from us? Isn't it more likely that it was some other girl? Suppose she's a downstairs maid who works here. She might have been absent without leave from her work. Perhaps she thought you were her mistress or one of the family. Perhaps her name also happens to be Mabel."

'"Is that probable?" I asked him.

'"Not very, no. But not impossible, either. Suppose she thought you'd seen her stealing from the shop?"

'"Mabel steal? Come on!"

'"Not our Mabel. This other Mabel."

'"Alfie," I said, "Put a sock in it. You're talking rubbish." And without listening to him any further I walked up the steps to the front door of the house and rang the bell.

'After a short wait a footman – a perfectly ordinary footman – came to the door. I reached into my handbag and took out one of my _cartes de visite_. "Miss Patterson is expecting me," I said, handing it to him. The man didn't blink, but stepped aside and admitted me into a wide deep hallway, with one of those round marble staircases at the back, rather grand. I sat in a comfortable armchair while he disappeared through a doorway to the right. There was a short muffled conversation and then he came back and ushered me through the door.

'It led into a well-appointed drawing room, furnished in a slightly out-of-date style – cotton chintz and roses and that sort of thing. There was only one occupant, a lady who stood as I entered. "Good afternoon, Miss Moon," she said and offered me her hand. I shook it and took a seat opposite her. There was an ormolu table between us, with some tea things on it. We waited in silence while the footman withdrew, returning shortly with a fresh pot of tea and an extra teacup. My hostess poured for herself and me.

'"Now then," she said, sitting back, "You told Gregson that Miss Patterson was expecting you." She waited.

'"Yes, dearest Mabel. She is at home, isn't she?"

'"Ah yes, Mabel Patterson. Her first name _is_ Mabel, is it not?"

'"Yes, it is."

'"And you are Miss Sonya Moon?" She was holding my _carte_ in her left hand. What did she think my name was? _Careful_, said Alfie.

'"Yes, Madame," I replied. She had not told me her own name. I looked at her more closely. She was, I noticed, very good-looking. Some men would have called her handsome, I think, as she was striking but no longer young. ('Which of us is?' said Lady Mabel, and smiled.) She had a magnificent bird-daemon in the form of a red kite and was wearing an elegant tea-gown of grey silk edged in black. I supposed her to be a fairly recent widow.

'"Quite so." The lady looked directly into my eyes. I was beginning to feel more than a little disconcerted. I had bluffed my way into this house on what were not exactly false pretences, but not quite the whole truth either. "Well, Miss Moon, I am sorry to have to tell you that Mabel Patterson is not at home."

'"But your man let me in when I asked to see her."

'"As he has been instructed, yes."

'I stood up. "I am very sorry to have wasted your time, Mrs…" I was hoping to point up her discourtesy in not giving me her name.

'"Please sit down, Miss Moon." I hesitated. This was becoming sinister. Should I make a run for the door? "Sit down!"

'I sat.

'"Now would you please tell me why you have lied your way into this house."

'"It's not a lie!" I said. "Mabel's here!"

'"You were not invited to see her."

'"But she's here! I saw her!" My voice had risen well beyond its normal pitch. "Doesn't she live here?"

'_Can we please make our excuses and leave now?_ said Alfie.

'"I do not think you saw any such person." The lady smiled. She was making fun of me. That was what she had been doing all along.

'At that point I lost my temper completely. "Look here," I said. "Your man let me in when I gave him Mabel's name. He wouldn't have done that if she weren't here at least some of the time. He would just have told me that there was no such person living at this address. So she is here, I did see her go into the basement and I am going to go to the Constabulary right now and tell them that you've kidnapped my friend and are holding her captive against her will. They will believe me, not you. Have you any idea who my father is?" I stood up and marched over to the door, intending to storm out and call a constable. But I never reached it.

'"Come back here please, Sonya," the lady said. I turned – I couldn't help myself. There was something in the way she spoke that made her impossible to disobey, even though her face still wore a broad smile.

'_Do as she says_, said Alfie. I slowly returned to my seat. The kite-daemon followed my progress from his perch by the lady's left shoulder.

'"What extraordinary things you do say!" the lady declared, offering me a piece of Madeira cake. She laughed. "Most peculiar. Now do sit by me, my dear." She patted the cushion next to her. "Of course I know who your father is. He's a very important man."

'"Yes, he is."

'"Much too important to be bothered with silly made-up stories about kidnapped girls, wouldn't you say? You do enjoy making up stories, don't you Sonya?"

'"Yes."

'"And writing them down, I expect. Have you got a special book you write them in? At home, I mean, in Goring?"

'"Yes, I have." I took another piece of cake.

'"Well, there you are! You can put it all down in your book when you get home, can't you, my dear?" The lady's voice was honey-sweet and irresistible in my ears. And so very reasonable! She wasn't trying to hide anything or stop me from telling anyone about Mabel's disappearance – if it _had_ been Mabel, which I was now beginning to doubt. I had already forgotten her hostility to me and the way she had prevented me from leaving the room only a few minutes earlier.

'We chatted inconsequentially about things like school and university and the London Season for another ten minutes or so and then the lady reminded me that I ought to be getting back to my Aunt Sybil. Funny – she had completely slipped my mind. I stood up and held out my hand.

'"Thank you, Madame. I must be getting along now. My aunt will be missing me." I said this as if I had only just thought of it.

'"What will you say to your _duenna?_"

'"Oh, I'll think of something." I was already concocting a story in my head – one that had nothing to do with Mabel or Jekyll Park.

'The lady rang a small hand bell and the footman appeared at the door. "Gregson will see you out. It has been quite a treat to have met you, Miss Moon," she said. I was dismissed.

'The footman saw me to the door. "Turn right here, Miss," he said. "The next road on the right will get you back to Knight's Bridge in no time."

'I thanked him, and turned right as he had told me. And that would have been that – in fact I would not be telling you this story – if I hadn't, befuddled as I was, been struck by the thought that I might have left some of my shopping behind. I turned round to go back to the house and then realised that everything except my handbag, which I was carrying, was still in Harvey's where my aunt was waiting for me. _Silly!_ I thought and turned back. But – something caught the corner of my eye. A glint, a brief flash, almost invisible but nevertheless there. I turned again.

'There was a bird in one of the trees on the other side of the road. It was the flicker of reflected sunlight in its eye that had caught my attention. I recognised it instantly. It was a red kite and it was watching me.

'Instantly everything the lady's lulling voice had tried to make me forget came back to me with full force. A red kite is a Cambrian bird. It is not found in London.

'_Alfie! _I said_. She was a…_

'_Yes_, my daemon replied_. I think she was. But don't say it, not even to me. Don't ever say it._

'I wanted to go back and hammer on the door of the house and demand to be told the truth. But Alfie said _no_, and he was right. Instead I walked slowly back along the pavement to Knight's Bridge, repeating my discovery over and over in my mind in case I fell under the lady's enchantment once more and forgot it. I never have.'

Lady Pangborne sat back in her seat and was silent. The firelight had grown dimmer as she had told her story, so that we sat even more ensorcelled in darkness than before. I was tempted to stir it with the poker, but the spell that had been cast over us persisted and I relented. I took a last sip of brandtwijn.

'And was it true?' I asked. 'Had Mabel been in that house? And was she also…?'

Lady Pangborne put a finger to her lips. 'You know the answers to those questions, do you not?'

_Yes, we do_, said Sandy.

'Yes, I do,' said I.

'Then I will say no more. As I've already said, you're a very clever man, Mister Hastings, as well as being a very nice one. A _dolly omie_, even. I'm sure I need say no more. It has been a pleasure to grant you your little wish.'

I laughed out loud. 'How bright you are, Lady Sonya!' She smiled at my little joke. 'Perhaps I should be making my way home now, before _your_ cleverness becomes altogether too much for me to deal with.'

I rose to my feet and shook Lady Sonya Pangborne's hand. Then I kissed Lady Mabel Clifton on the right cheek, as I was accustomed to do. Her chaffinch-daemon Hal chirped his approval from the darkness by the library window, a full thirty feet from where I stood. His eyes caught the red glow of the firelight and cast it defiantly back to me.

- 0 -

So that's the story. I attended many more of Mabel's little gatherings thereafter but I never again found myself on terms of such close intimacy with either her or Lady Sonya. It was no longer necessary. We understood one another perfectly well.

And now, my dearest Fay, I am getting old and it's time for me to pass on the things I have learned in this life to a new generation. It can do little harm. I have never discovered the precise number of the house, though I have walked up and down Jekyll Park Road many times and looked curiously, but discreetly, in at the windows there. Its secret remains safe from me. I think there are many secrets – some virtuous, some less so – concealed behind windows and curtains, front doors and footmen, and some people who choose to remain hidden for reasons both good and bad. Nobody is all they appear, after all. But this secret is one I have kept and one I wish you to keep in your turn. It matters less now than it once did. Lady Sonya Pangborne died last year in circumstances with which we are all familiar, and Mabel Clifton is no longer known by that name. But as for what name she goes by now, I really mustn't say. For, after all, if I did I would most assuredly have to shoot you.


End file.
